


Keep Breathing, We'll Get Through This

by Callmeisolde



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Actually Everyone Needs A Hug, But kinda compliant for Jessica Jones, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Emotional Roller Coaster, Foggy nelson also needs a hug btw, Gen, Inspired by Real Events, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, New York, Sick Character, but also not canon compliant for luke cage season 3 or iron fist season 2, but isn't gonna get one for a while, including me and probably you, post DD season 3, so consider this fic your hug please
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23692081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeisolde/pseuds/Callmeisolde
Summary: Matt Murdock is so intrinsically connected to New York city to me that when I heard the news I had to write about it. When the city is sick, Matt is sick. It's his city, after-all, and he would die to keep it safe.It's no secret that writing can be used as a tool to process emotions, events, traumas. The world is going through a collective trauma right now. We're rightfully scared. Rightfully in pain. Rightfully in mourning. Apparently, when I feel that way, I write about Matt Murdock.Please, if your mental health is suffering don't feel the need to read this fic. It's primarily a way for me to search through these emotions. I thought maybe, just maybe, it could be used that way for someone else, too.
Relationships: Jessica Jones & Matt Murdock, Luke Cage & Jessica Jones & Matt Murdock & Danny Rand, Matt Murdock & Claire Temple, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson, Matt Murdock & Karen Page
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	1. Matt goes out

At first it doesn't seem pressing. Not to Matt. There are things to do and places to be, arms deals to bust and drug supplies to disrupt. Muggings to interrupt and kidnappings to foil. 

Crime is constant. It doesn’t let up. 

So Matt goes out. 

He goes out in the black mask, the nondescript black clothes that he’s favoured since the devil died. He wraps his fists, takes the new billy clubs that Danny bought him as a welcome back gift. 

He's meaner since he came back from the dead. Things get a little more bloody than before. Bad guys end up in hospital indiscriminately. From the kid drawing a knife for the first time, intending to intimidate some old lady into handing over her social security cheque, heart pounding so hard in his chest Matt hears it like a bass drum — to the hardened criminal whose heart is as steady as his hands when he draws the gun. They all get picked up broken and bleeding because Matt doesn’t remember how to do it any other way. His hands only remember being fists. Only remember blood and bone. He's meaner. And that's something he can't think about too long.

The practice is doing well. Nelson, Murdock and Page have been operating four months out of a back room behind Nelson's meats. It always smells like decay there. Like the slow rot of bodies laid out in the sun. The more time they spend in the building, the more seriously Matt considers vegetarianism. Besides the atmosphere being rather lacking, business is good. Nelson, Murdock and Page are good.

Karen is a dynamite investigator. She was an excellent journalist, but this — this is what makes her tick. The uncovering of information. She's hungry for it. Starving. She digs into everything with gusto, coming up for air only when she's sated. When she has what they need for the case. She's hungry all the time now. All the time. Matt doesn't like to think too hard about that either. Can’t help but wonder if she’d be so damn hungry for justice if she hadn’t gone so long without it. 

Foggy is good too. So good. He's the happiest he's been in years and every time Matt opens the door to Nelson’s Meats and hears that little jingle followed by the familiar sounds of Karen and Foggy ribbing each other in the back room — it fills him up. Like someone’s thrown him a life preserver. Like sunlight on his face after a long time in the dark. Foggy is happy. And that's something Matt does like to think about. It’s the practice that’s making him so happy, the three of them, together.

Maybe that’s why Matt is loath to give it up right away. 

But February burns into March and rumours dissolve into fact. And it changes.

March first, one case. March second, two. Then on March fourth, there are 11. By March sixth — 33. On March seventh, a state of emergency is declared for New York State as 89 cases are confirmed. New York is told loudly and often — stay home. Stay isolated. Stay safe. 

NM&P lose their centralized office and gain three remote ones, their work following them home. Foggy hunkers down with Marci in their Midtown apartment, Karen holds up in Hell’s Kitchen, Matt just a few blocks away. It’s a little harder for Matt than the others. The technology that makes it easy to continue meeting hasn’t exactly been optimized for the blind, and there’s a learning curve for all the video conferencing his job suddenly entails.

Working in a silo has never been his thing. He's easily distracted. He gets lost in the things going on around him. The apartment building is usually quiet but with more and more tenants sheltering in place, it becomes noisy at all hours. Matt calls in eight different domestic violence cases within the first week. Tensions are running high. People are scared, stressed and increasingly broke. 

So Matt goes out. 

The devil keeps order. It's important, in times like these, he tells Foggy that over video chat (well I still need to see your beautiful face, Matt). 

“At least you wear a mask.” Foggy sighs. 

“It doesn't cover my mouth.”

“Maybe it should.”

Matt can’t focus during the day for long periods so he starts doing what he can where he sees the opportunity. He throws himself into operation Meet Your Neighbours with gusto. Some of them he’s met before near the mailboxes or on the stairs. For others, he matches heartbeats to footsteps to voices and paints himself a picture. Zeroes in on the ones who might need help. The single moms who are suddenly working at home with toddlers and might not be able to get out of the house for groceries. The older folks who are more at risk, who might need help bringing in the mail or taking out their laundry. The ones with underlying conditions who may need their prescriptions picked up or their dinner carried upstairs after it’s delivered. 

He spends some time thinking about the black mask and the suit. About the bloody fists and the broken bones. He wonders if this isn’t what he should have been doing after all. If he wouldn’t be more useful to his community spending all night disinfecting door knobs than going out on the street to get broken and bloody.

The streets continue to empty. Now, Matt spends his nights calling in overdoses and suicide attempts in back alleys and quiet apartments. Domestic violence and other forms of gender violence don’t seem to be dwindling like other crimes. The shit that goes on behind closed doors is what’s going to intensify as people become increasingly desperate. 

So Matt goes out. 

But it’s different now. The work. Matt wears his civvies, trades the black mask in for a fabric one he bought at the drugstore that covers just his mouth and nose. He knocks on doors and leaves his calling card, Nelson Murdock & Page. “If you’re ready to get out of this relationship, we can help you start over.” He says, and it’s a speech he gives to three different people in the same apartment building, then over one block, then four more. 

Matt goes to the shelter and he helps sort people into beds. 

He goes out to the streets and directs people sleeping rough to the shelters with the most room. He hands out fabric masks that the lady in apartment 3C makes out of bed sheets and fabric scraps. 

He and Karen put together care baskets with hand sanitizer they syphon out of a bulk sized bottle and into individual ones they got from the dollar store. A mask, a bar of soap, a hand towel, a roll of toilet paper. Matt leaves her half of the stuff at Karen's door and comes back a few hours later to pick up the assembled kits. 

Then he goes out, and he finds the people who need them most. 

He and Foggy are on conference calls six hours a day so it's natural Foggy’s the first one to call him on it. 

“Matt, you sound rough? You feeling ok?”

“Ya. I'm fine.” Matt stifles a cough. He's been feeling run down since he woke up, like he overdid it last night maybe. Didn't get the four hours of sleep he claims is all it takes to sustain himself. Didn't meditate this morning. “It's fine,” he tells Foggy. He tells himself. 

Foggy calls Karen. Karen calls Jessica. Jessica is also a purveyor of the phrase 'I'm fine' so she knows right away, it's bullshit. She calls Matt and the second he starts coughing she's on him. Asking about whether he's been isolating, who he's been seeing. What he's been doing. She loses it when he tells her he's been going out every night. Every day.

“Get this idiot, you're sheltering in place, do you hear me?”

But Matt can't be that sick. He can't have caught anything... he's been careful. He wears gloves. He wears the mask over his mouth. He doesn't touch his face till he's home and changed and showered. He's careful. He would know, wouldn’t he? He would sense it? 

So Matt goes out. 

It's when the guy he's stopped from looting the corner grocer lands a punch, one that knocks him flat and collides his head with the cement walk, that Matt admits he might be a bit off. A bit murky. His reaction times slower. His senses a little dulled ‘round the edges. The looter kicks him in the solar plexus when he's down and Matt wheezes on the ground, unable to get up. Looter guys pockets rattle with pill bottles from the small pharmacy in the back corner, he knocks over a display and stops to grab a six pack of toilet paper before taking off, it's all Matt can do to get off the ground and careen out the back exit before the blaring whine of police sirens becomes pervasive in the quiet of the empty street. 

Back at the apartment he strips out of his contaminated clothes, stuffing them into a recycling bag for their trip to the laundromat. He trashes his gloves, stands in the bathroom in his boxers while the room spins and fogs up with steam. 

Things start to steady as he stands under the stream of hot water. More firmly in his own body, he’s able to ground himself down through his toes and reach out with his senses. They’re definitely dulled, but he can still pinpoint each and every droplet of water. From there, he moves inward. A deep inhale and a long exhale that reveal a slight wheeze. His lungs don’t expand as fully as he’s used to, hinting at a buildup of fluid inside. His sense of smell is dulled. It could just be a cold, he tells himself. He's been burning the candle at both ends, something Claire would admonish him for at every opportunity. He considers calling her. But she's only just got her foot back in the door at Metro General. Last time Matt got involved in her life she ended up losing her job. Losing a friend. Now they have to keep it business, keep it distant. Besides, the city needs her right now more than it needs Matt. 

Matt steps out of the shower and dries off. Pads to the bedroom and slips into his sweats. Zipping up his hoodie over a bare chest because, out of the influence of the shower, he's both hot and cold. It's late. Or early. Can't call Foggy. Can't call Claire or Karen. So Matt lowers himself to the soft sofa cushion and leans his head against its back. Closes his eyes and lets his mind spread out through the recesses of the building. This is how he relaxes, like the meditative technique of tensing and releasing each muscle in turn. He starts at the roof. Quiet. Then to his floor, his quiet apartment and Mrs. Marella in the adjacent one. She's softly snoring, safe. One floor down, two apartments. The first is quiet, no one home. Where is Mr. Brewer? Across the hall Mr. and Mrs.Derkach are sleeping, Mr. Derkach gets out of bed to relieve himself. 

Another floor down, this one is divided into four smaller flats. Miss Lachaine is sniffling quietly in her sleep, the television softly playing below that. Next door Mr. Bellamy is watching TV more loudly, 2,382 Covid-19 cases in the state. 16 deaths. Number of cases has risen by 73% since Matt checked yesterday. Crime is down 40% the news anchors are saying, as more and more people elect to follow government recommendations to self isolate and stay home. 

Good. Matt thinks. That’s good. 

Miss Nguyen and her boyfriend are having quiet sex. She's crying softly as he strokes her face, his heart hammering in his chest, not sure if he should stop or continue. 

Then Matt comes to Mr. Timmons in the last apartment on the second floor. Timmons is a quiet sort. When Matt first met the old man he seemed grouchy and mistrustful, but after enough pleasant encounters Matt had made a tentative offer of help. He now occasionally lugs Timmons laundry across the street to the laundromat, brings the mail up to the second floor from the first. Timmons is a quiet, private sort. And that doesn’t bother Matt at all. 

At first, Matt takes him for sleeping. Taking quiet, shallow breaths. But then he coughs, and coughs and coughs and coughs and Matt opens his eyes. Mr Timmons is barely breathing. Can't catch his breath. His lungs aren't filling... and his heart just skipped a beat. 

Matt is on his feet. He's not sure what to do. Not sure how he will explain this as Matt, not sure how he'll get away with it as Daredevil either. This isn't something he can beat up. Hit and hit until it doesn't get back up. This is something he has to be more subtle about because — it just isn't safe. Not even for him.

So he calls 911. The operator is slammed, Matt can hear a million calls going on in the background. He explains his neighbour has a suspected case of Covid-19 and he is in distress. Matt is able to tell her about Mr Timmons heart rate. His respiration rate. Can't tell from here if he has a temperature but Matt guesses yes. Says he doesn't have a thermometer so can't say how high. The operator sighs at the end. “Sir, your call has been logged and we've put out a request for you, but it looks like there are no available trucks right now. It might take a few hours for someone to get to you.” 

_A few hours._ Matt balks. And the operator apologizes. “We advise you to monitor your neighbours condition and call back if it worsens, or drive him directly to the hospital. If you choose to do that, please let us know so we can cancel the call.” 

Matt hangs up the phone, defeated. 

He slips on his boots. 

The fire escape is rickety but sturdy. Matt's used it plenty of times. He descends carefully, quietly, and stops outside Mr Timmons window. It's quiet now, so quiet Matt's not sure if he's too late — but then there it is, the heartbeat. Quick now, compensating for a reduction of oxygen. Skip skip. Too fast. 

Matt presses his hands to the window and pushes, it cracks open with a whisper and slides up. He creeps in, quiet as a breeze and spends a moment mapping the place. He's standing in a small sitting room butted up against a meager kitchen not dissimilar to Matt's own. There's a bathroom on his left, and a bedroom, with the door closed. That's where the heartbeat is coming from. Matt creeps to the front door and unlatches the security bolt. He wets his lips, still unsure about his plan. Decides there isn't much for it but to act. And act now. 

Matt opens and closes the front door. Raps gently on it, "Hello?" He calls. 

The heartbeat in the bedroom speeds up a little more, Mr Timmons starts to cough again, fumbling at his nightstand for something. 

Matt curses himself for not bringing his glasses or cane, steps further into the apartment. "Mr Timmons, it's me, Matt from upstairs." He waits a moment, then knocks on the bedroom door. "Mr Timmons? Can I come in?"

There's a quiet croak in between coughs that Matt isn't sure how to interpret, he steels himself and opens the door. 

The room smells like sweat and sickness. Like stale tap water and salt and something else sickly sweet. It smells like decay too, like something rotting Matt isn't sure how to place. Mr Timmons tries to sit up, his heart hammering now. Matt raises his hands. "I'm so sorry Sir for coming in like this, but I heard you struggling and..." But there's something wrong. Matt's misjudged. Mr Timmons isn't in the bed, like he supposed. He's on the floor. The old man croaks again, and reaches out. Without thinking Matt closes the distance, taking Timmons' palm in his. 

“Matt.” The old man stammers, “Matt, how?”

“I heard...I heard you from the hall and I... Don't worry, I called an ambulance.”

“Thank you. Thank you, you've... you've…”

He breaks into another coughing fit while Matt assesses. Temperature is high. He's got an open sore on his foot and one on his hand. Lung function definitely inhibited. He wheezes between each wracking cough. Matt stands, goes to the bed. Finds the sheets cold and dry but stinking of sweat. He strips them, pulls up the duvet as a makeshift fitted sheet, then returns to Mr Timmons on the floor. Tries to help him stand, but the old man is writhing in pain with every cough. Matt has to brace himself carefully before he lifts the man, places him onto the mattress, disturbed to find himself sore and breathless from the exertion.

“You're strong.” The old man wheezes. “You...you shouldn't be here... Isn't safe.”

“It's alright.” Matt smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “We can wait together for the ambulance.” 

“How long…”

“A few hours they said.” He hesitates, adds: “I'm sorry.” 

Timmons gets quiet after that. Matt’s been around a lot of dying people. Knows what it looks like, smells like, sounds like. But he’s not experienced it like this. 

Mr Timmons is diabetic. That explains some of the smells. The sores. Matt tries to help him eat, drink something, but the old man can't stop coughing long enough, can't get enough breath. Matt holds him in a sitting position and rubs warm circles on his back in an effort to get him to breathe more deeply. He counts but the old man can't obey. He flops listlessly in Matt's arms. Matt offers to call someone else, but it's 2 AM. There's no one awake. 

The old man turns his face to Matt and he's damp with new perspiration, his sweat sweet smelling and sticky. 

“Go.” Timmons urges, but Matt shakes his head. 

“Go!” Timmons says again, and this time he stiffens in Matt's arms and tries to push him away. Matt’s grip doesn’t even tighten, the man is so weak he is a small wave trying to punish the shore, and Matt can do this. He can be the rock face. He can be unmovable. ‘Cause there’s one thing Matt knows, deep in his soul, there’s one thing Matt will never do — leave. Leaving is what other people do. Leaving is his father. His mother. Stick. Leaving is Elektra and even Foggy, sometimes. Leaving is Lantom and leaving is Natasha. Leaving isn't Matt. Not ever. So he shakes his head and he very gently relinquishes Mr Timmons to the waiting pillows but he 

does 

not 

leave. 

At some point while they wait, when Mr Timmons breathing comes in short, shallow gasps, when Matt hears the stuttering of his heart, and his extremities have grown cold — Matt offers his hand, and Timmons takes it. And they sit like that until the ambulance arrives. 

The paramedics are harried, exhausted and Matt can't blame them, not at all. They're gloved, the smell of latex, and they're masked, the rustle of material across their lips as they speak, the gathering of condensation and trapped breath. Their heart rates rise as they enter the bedroom. Just a little. Just enough that Matt is reminded that everyone, everyone is frightened as hell right now. Matt carefully lets Mr Timmons hand go, he backs to the corner of the room, hugging his arms to his chest and leaning against the dresser there to keep himself from falling over. It's too warm in the room. Even his hoodie is too warm and itchy. 

The paramedics assess, they offer supplemental oxygen and a pain killer. They carefully transfer Mr Timmons to the waiting stretcher. As they're packing up, one of the two approaches Matt. 

“How do you know Mr Timmons?”

“I'm a neighbour in the building.”

“Do you know anything at all about his medical history? Medications he's on or...if he's been tested for Coronavirus?”

Matt shakes his head even as he answers. “Diabetes, I think it might have been controlled before, I never noticed anything but it's definitely not controlled now. He didn't tell me whether he'd obtained a Coronavirus test.” 

“Alright.” The paramedic nods, tilting her head a little as she seems to look him over. “And how about you sir, have you been tested?”

“No.” Matt shakes his head again, a little less enthusiastic as his headache intensifies. “No I haven't been tested. But I … I think... I've already been exposed. Otherwise I would have taken more precautions.”

“You have to remember the symptoms look very similar to other illnesses. You've put yourself at great risk by staying here tonight.”

“I couldn't…” Matt reaches up to scrub his face, hesitates half way and lowers his hand. “I couldn't leave him alone. He has family out of state, they'll be contacted?”

The paramedic grimaces beneath the mask. Nods. Doesn't say, they won't make it in time. Doesn't say, they wouldn't be let into the building if they did. 

She gives Matt instructions to change out of his clothes, wash his hands and face, not touch his face as much as possible, and to self-isolate for 14 days, or as long as he's showing symptoms. She follows her partner to the truck with Mr Timmons. Matt listens as they carry the stretcher down the stairs in silence. 

Stupid.

Matt didn’t leave.

The old man will still die alone. 


	2. Maybe when he wakes up

It's close to 7AM when Matt gets back to his apartment. He dutifully strips out of his clothes and places them with the other contaminated ones from tonight. He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, then takes a Lysol wipe to his front door handles, the roof access, the bathroom handle and sink faucets. He has another shower, this one lasts even longer than the first and he tries, he really tries, to focus on the sharpened impression of rain drops against the enclosed space, his body fading away beneath their blanketing vibrations. But the wheeze in his lungs and his body temperature peaking above that of the shower drive him to distraction. 

He's got a fresh pair of sweats in the dresser but only the one grey hoodie. Slips into a nondescript t-shirt instead. Downs a large glass of water to quench the feeling of being hollowed out. He's aching. He's exhausted. He's supposed to be checking in with Foggy for work in two hours. Instead, he sends a quick text. 

_Not feeling well this morning, had a long night. Taking a personal day. Sorry fog!_

And he curls into a ball on-top of the duvet cover to fall asleep. 

The phone wakes him up. _Foggy. Foggy. Foggy._

Matt turns over and starts to cough. He staggers out of bed and to the washroom, gripping the edge of the sink to steady himself as he coughs and wheezes. He spits the expelled gunk from his lungs into the sink and washes it away, splashing his face. Matt remembers what woke him and goes searching for his phone. Foggy's hung up, so Matt calls back. 

“Sorry buddy I was sleeping.” 

“At 4PM? How sick are you?”

“I'm fine.” Matt reaches for the clock on his bedside table to confirm the time displayed, frowning. 

“Sure you are. You need anything? I could drop off some soup? Or I don't know, hand sanitizer?” 

“Ha.” 

“I would break into my own stash for you buddy. Seriously though are you taking care of yourself Matt? Do you have everything you need for like, 30 days or whatever they're recommending now?”

“I'm good Fog. Just sick. Trying to sleep it off.”

“OK well. Let's keep in contact? Maybe I'll call in the morning … and then in the evening and that way if you don't pick up the phone I'll know when to send an ambulance.” 

“Haha. No. What if I'm asleep?” 

“I'll give you an hour window to call me back or something, then I'll call an ambulance.” 

“No Foggy.” 

“OK, then I'll call Claire.” 

“Don't even joke about that.” Matt resists the urge to scrub his hands over his eyes again, apparently it's a habit he doesn't usually give much thought. 

“OK. Just. Take care of yourself buddy. Don't blame me for worrying about my friends.”

“I don't blame you for worrying.” Matt sighs. “It's ... scary out there right now. I think it's natural to be worried.” 

Foggy hesitates down the line, thinking about something that makes his heart rate pick up. “Did you hear some people who live alone are moving in with other single friends who have passed a 14 day isolation period…”

“No…”

“Hear me out. And it's like a minimal risk after that but your other friends and family members get to worry about you less and you don't go insane from loneliness.”

“I thought you would have gotten your fill of living with me in college.”

“Oh I'm not thinking me, I'm thinking Karen. That way I can get back to bingeing that tiger guy show with Marci and I don't have to worry about either of you being on your own.”

“Well stop worrying, Fog. Karen and I can both take care of ourselves.” 

“That would be more convincing if you hadn't spent the better part of last year dead, Matt.” 

“Ya ya.” Matt stifles a cough. “Am I gonna live that down any time soon?”

“Not likely.” 

When Matt hangs up he spends a few minutes assessing. His head is murky, his thoughts sluggish. He's tired. Too tired for having just slept nine hours. His whole body aches. Like the morning after a fight. There's fluid in his lungs, not much, not like Timmons from last night. But it's there. His exhale has a touch of wheeze at the end. Meditation would help, deepening the breath. But Foggy's right, he has to eat something. Luckily there's leftover Thai in the fridge. Matt fishes it out but the smell turns his stomach. He drinks another glass of water and turns to meditation. 

It helps. A little. He spends some time calling in an assault in progress, and two cases of COVID-19 that sound serious. He texts with Karen. Despite his conversation with Foggy, he worries too. He calls his mother, Maggie, at St Patrick's. The nuns are still caring for the orphans, and the church is open for the public to visit (only 10 at a time, she assures him, plenty of room to space out) but they're closed to the public for mass and are not holding events. No funerals, she laments. The dead go unburied. The few who are laid to rest have only their immediate family to bid farewell. The entire community is in mourning. Matt knows, he's heard it. Can hear it now from his apartment. Lantom once told him funerals are for the living. Without that catharsis — how do they move on? 

Halfway through the conversation Matt's stomach starts to cramp up. Pain shoots through his abdomen, rising above the muscle pain and headache he's been suppressing all night.

Maggie grills Matt on how he's doing and he evades the questions. Tells her to call him if anything changes. 

He hangs up the phone on the way to the washroom to wretch. When he's empty, he leans back against the cool plastic of the tub surround. His temperature is soaring now, his skin feels clammy and damp. The smells are heady in the small bathroom, his sweat, his sick, the bleach from the disinfectant wipes. His head is pounding. Matt doubles forward coughing and thinks he's going to throw up again, but there's nothing left. He clutches his stomach, supporting his ribs while he coughs. When he can, he pulls himself up with the help of the towel bar and manages to make it to the sofa before he collapses. 

He wakes up shivering. His teeth are chattering. He's damp all over and there's heat rising off his skin. His hair is slick against his head. He moves, and groans. His muscles are still sore and achy. Maybe not more...maybe he's just weaker now. While yesterday it seemed like something he could rise above, now he can't rise at all. His stomach aches with emptiness. He's weak. 

He tries to rise and the motion causes him to fall into a coughing fit. He lays back against the sofa. His sinuses are cloudy, his senses out of whack. He turns his head up to the ceiling and inky darkness stares back. He has no idea what time it is. His phone is on the coffee table and the battery is dead. 

It takes him several tries to get off the sofa. He staggers to the bathroom to relieve himself and shrugs out of his clothes, hoping a cool shower will lower his temperature and revitalize him. He almost cries out when the water hits his skin. It's freezing. How is it so freezing? He leans against the shower stall until he's confident his temperature has decreased a degree or two and the sweat smell has been washed away. Then he staggers back to the bedroom and finds a pair of gym shorts and another t-shirt. He sits heavy on the bed and fumbles with the cord for his phone. The clock face reads 1pm and that gives Matt a start. When the phone vibrates to let him know it's restarted it's immediately followed by the missed call notification. 

Three progressively more anxious missed calls from Foggy and one from Karen. _If you don't call Foggy back by 4 he might come looking for you and I know you don't want that._

Matt lays back on the bed and dials. 

“Matt!” 

“Foggy. I'm sorry I missed your…”

“What's going on? Are you still sick? Why didn't you answer?”

“Ya I'm still sick, Fog, sorry. I was sleeping again.”

“All day…”

“Ya. I guess all day. To be honest I think my circadian rhythm is all fucked up from being sick.” 

“Matt I need you to be honest with me. Should I be worried? Do you have this thing?”

Matt is quiet a beat too long. 

Foggy’s heart rate jumps again and there’s more than worry in his voice, “Matt?” 

“I'm sorry, I'm having trouble concentrating.” Maybe it's talking to Foggy, attempting to vocalize what exactly is happening to him. Happening to his city. Maybe it's his own anxiety mounting, but his breath hitches, his exhale taking on more of a wheeze. He coughs, muffling it into his bedspread since he doesn't have a sleeve. 

“The other night, fog. I heard a man in my building. He had the virus. I knew he did.” 

“Matt…” 

“He was dying. I knew that too. And he was all alone. It was early and the ambulance was a long ways out. I couldn't leave him. I couldn't leave him alone.” 

“Matt tell me you've been safe. Tell me you've been staying in and being safe?” 

“I tried.” Matt croaks. 

“Do you have it? Do you have it Matt?”

“Ya.” Matt sighs, "I think so." 

“Did you get it from your neighbour?”

“No.” Matt shakes his head, confident in that at least. “No, my symptoms started earlier. I would have…” Would he have let Timmons lay on the floor for three hours in the dead of night if he hadn't been sick already? “I would have taken more precautions if I weren't already sick.”

“You should have done it anyway Matt!” Foggy sounding exasperated, now it feels like the old days. 

“I know. I ... I was stupid... I know.” 

“You're always... You're always doing this.”

“It's just a cold…”

“It's not just a cold. You know that.”

“I'm OK. I'll ... be OK.” 

“You're not OK now?”

“I'll be OK.”

Foggy's turn for quiet on the line. “What are your symptoms?”

“Foggy come on, I can handle this.”

“Tell me. Let me help. I can... get you tested.”

“I don't need the test, I already know.”

“Tell me your symptoms!”

“Fever, chills, body aches.”

“How high's the fever?”

Matt thinks for a moment. “102. Ish.”

“Ish? What, you don't have a thermometer.”

“I don't usually need one... But my senses are a little out of whack.”

“Human thermometer. Another weird Matt fact. Have you taken anything? 102 is pretty high.” 

“I ... I have Tylenol.”

“OK, start there. I can pick you up some other fever meds and leave them in the hall outside.”

“You shouldn't leave the house Fog.”

“I'll be careful. More careful than you. So fever, what else.”

“A ...cough. And I was throwing up last night. I haven't been able to eat anything.”

“Are you drinking water?”

“Ya.” Matt should get more water. He struggles up and stumbles to the kitchen. 

“Anything else?”

“Headache. That's about it.”

“Sounds pretty rough.”

“I've felt worse.” 

“Uhhuh.” 

“I ever tell you about the time I woke up under a building?”

“Please don't. OK. I'm going to bring those fever meds over right now. I won't come in unless you need me to, OK? But I'll call from the stairs so please answer.” 

“Thanks Fog.”

“Ya, of course Matt. I'll ... hear you soon.”

Matt manages to keep down a sleeve of saltines and two glasses of water. He's starting to sweat through his new t-shirt. He rolls the cool glass across his forehead until it's warm from his touch. 

Foggy calls dutifully twenty minutes later. 

“OK I'm on the stairs. I'm hanging a bag on the doorknob, it's got the fever meds, some cans of soup and ramen packages, and a couple other odds and ends I thought might help.”

“Thank you.” Matt suppresses a cough into the crook of his elbow. “Thanks. Now get out of here.”

“There's one more thing. I ... I ran into one of your neighbours downstairs. They told me Mr Timmons, the man you mentioned? He passed away in hospital.”

Matt doesn't say anything. Isn't sure what to say. He stands for a moment, working his jaw. 

“Hey.” Foggy says. “Come to the door, I've got a mask and I'll stand 6 feet away but I wanna see your beautiful face.”

“I doubt I'm looking so good right now.”

“Come on. For me?”

Matt lurches up and walks to the door, hanging up the phone. When he opens it, he finds the plastic bag on the outside handle and picks it up. 

“Over here, Matt.” Foggy's voice sounds good in the stairwell, not coming out of the tinny phone speakers. Matt's surprised by the lump that rises in his throat when he hears it.

“Hey,” Matt turns towards the voice. Foggy must be standing on the second step down the stairs, as far as he can get with a good view of the door. Matt smiles warmly, leans against the door frame. “Thanks Foggy. For everything.”

“Hey.” Foggy's voice sounds wet. “It's what family does, right?”

“Right. You and Marci good?”

“Ya. We're good. Bored. She's not gonna want to marry me anymore if we have to isolate much longer.”

“Ya she will. You're the best.”

“You have to say that, you're the best man.”

“Karen's good?”

“Call her yourself, but ya. She's good. Also bored. She can't do much investigating stuck at home. I think she's finished reading Harry Potter all the way through and is about to start on something else dear and beloved to us all that she's never heard of. “

“Take care of each-other.”

“You too Matt. You're included in that.”

Matt doesn't mention that his knees are going to buckle, or that all he can think of is returning to bed or the couch. And hopefully not getting up again for a long long time. He gives a small wave in foggy's direction. 

“Thanks Fog.”

“Hey, love you man.”

“You too.” Matt smiles, he turns back inside and shuts the door. Hearing Foggy so close, not being able to see him properly, to give him a hug when there's wet in his voice — it's harder than he anticipated. 

Matt manages to get back to the couch and explore the contents of the bag. He takes a dose of the fever medication. The mystery item in the bag is a thermometer, one that reads the temperature out loud in a robotic voice. 

Matt clutches the thermometer as he lays back on the sofa. Maybe when he wakes up, it'll be easier to breathe. 


	3. I'll be checking up on you

The lack of oxygen is what wakes him. He's gasping. Sucking back short, shallow breaths that refuse to deepen. He panics at first. And that doesn't help. He's cold again, his skin raised in gooseflesh despite radiating heat. Matt tries to sit up and his body protests, he feels heavy. Like there's a ton of bricks on his chest. The panic rises all over again, with his senses haywire, he momentarily believes there's someone sitting on top of him. He flails, trying to knock them off. In his confusion he tumbles off the couch, hitting his arm on the side of the coffee table with a loud crack. He hits the ground with his face a second later, groaning and gasping. As he tries to draw to his knees he feels the thermometer on the floor and grasps it. Manages to push himself up to sit back against the base of the couch. 

He presses the button on the side of the thermometer and puts it in his mouth. A few seconds later it beeps and reads "104.3 fahrenheit."

Matts hand shake as he sets the thermometer on the table. He has to get control of his breathing. Meditation only gets him so far. Why is his temperature so high? The adrenaline of his panic starts to wear off and it leaves him shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering. Pain is shooting down his arm from where it hit the table, cutting through the body aches. Matt spends a few more minutes trying to meditate, he's struggling. He can't hear properly. He can't smell. He presses his palms against the hardwood floor and feels the vibrations of the building under his hands. The leg of the coffee table is digging into his thigh, but the table top seems about a mile away when he tries to raise his arm. It takes him a solid minute to locate his phone, and he’s out of breath when he puts it to his ear. 

She answers on the fourth ring. Reticent or just busy? Matt's not even sure what time it is, maybe it's the middle of the night. In any case, he's surprised and grateful when he hears Claire's voice. 

"Matthew Murdock it is 2 in the morning you had better be calling me from your grave."

Luke, muffled through the background. "Don't answer, Claire."

"Claire." Matt gasps between ragged breaths. 

"Matt, what's wrong?"

Matt struggles to get the words out. "I'm not sure...but I think I need to go...to the hospital."

Claire doesn't ask why, or grill him for symptoms. She doesn't say anything else, just: "I'm on my way."

“Claire!” Matt manages to stop her before she hangs up. He can hear rustling down the line, the sounds of someone moving around and a muttered ‘sweet sister’. “I’m sick. I think… I think I have the virus. Just…if you come…” 

“I’ll be safe.” Claire answers, and the line disconnects. 

Matt is in and out after that. Floating. It's a meditative technique. Also just about all he can manage at the moment. To draw within his own body and dwell there. Focusing everything he has on each singular breath. He draws it in as far as he can, holds, releases until it thins to a wheeze. Until he's empty of every thought, every feeling. Empty of fear. Empty of pain. Empty of guilt, because there's always guilt. Empty of shame. Just empty. And in the emptiness, there's a kind of freedom. Then he starts again, and draws it all back in so that he can let it all out. Over and over. One breath, then the next. 

He doesn't hear the door, but suddenly Claire is next to him. Matt can smell disinfectant and hear her breath against something soft and crisp. She's wearing a mask, her hands, when she touches his neck are covered in latex gloves. She holds her fingers against his throat for a minute, pops the end of the thermometer in his mouth as he starts to rouse. 

“Hey, just relax Matt. You're doing great.”

He tries to mumble her name around the end of the thermometer but Claire shushes him. The thermometer beeps and announces, "104.9 fahrenheit".

“How's your breathing?” She asks him, taking her finger off his pulse. 

Matt focuses on the work of drawing in air, one shallow breath after another. 

She gestures away from him and Matt is surprised to realize someone else is in the room. Takes a second to recognize the volume of Luke's pulse thrumming blood through his oversized frame. There's a small sound and a buzzing begins overhead. The lights turning on. 

“OK Matt.” Claire starts, gloved hands on Matt's arm. “Bad news. Your fever is higher than I'm comfortable with, compounded with your other symptoms you're at risk for seizures or organ failure. You're already starved for oxygen, your lips are turning blue. I think you need supplemental oxygen or breathing support. We don't really have a choice here, it's not safe for me to treat you…”

“Hospital.” Matt croaks. 

“Ya.” Claire sighs. “Hospital.” 

Matt nods and Claire gestures behind her again. “Luke's here. He's wearing gloves and a mask too, he's going to carry you downstairs to my car.”

Matt starts to stand up, waving them away. “I can…” But he stumbles as soon as he's close to standing, the whole world spiralling away and almost pitching him back to the floor. Luke steps up, helping Claire steady him. 

“There's fever meds here, do you know when you took them and how much?”

“One dose.” Matt muffles a cough into his arm. Does some math. “‘Bout nine hours ago?”

Luke positions Matt and makes to lift him but Matt waves him off. 

“I don't think you'll make it down the …” Luke starts but Matt makes a show of stumbling to the door unaided. 

Clair sighs, audibly, for Matt's benefit. And she's right. The exertion of walking undoes all of the work of Matt's meditation, almost doubling him over by the time he's reached the door. Luke sweeps in and lifts him like a fucking bride. Matt would care, if he weren't struggling to stay conscious. 

The next thing he knows he's laying out in the back of a car. 

The radio is off so it's just the vibrations of the road rumbling through the seats and the sound of the traffic. Claire is talking softly in the front.

“I don't know what we'll be able to tell them. There are probably hundreds of injuries from the past that could affect the outlook of an illness like this. He's punctured and collapsed his lungs, he's broken his ribs...who knows what injuries he suffered when…”

“We don't have to explain anything. He'll make something up later.”

“They're gonna assume he's abused or ... really fucking clumsy.” Claire sighs. “All the times I told him to go to the hospital I never gave a lot of thought to what would happen. A few years ago I would have been thrilled he was finally listening to me.”

“And now?”

“Now I'm scared. ‘Cause if we're going to the hospital.” 

“Ya.” Luke sighs. 

“Ya.”

Luke sets him in a wheelchair when they arrive and pushes him inside, Claire is walking quickly ahead of them. The doors automatically part and Matt is hit with an overwhelming wall of noise and sensations. He's glad for his dulled senses, but even so, he can hear coughing and wheezing, sniffling and retching. Gasping and choking. The sound of whooshing pressurized oxygen and the dripping of thousands of IVs. He can smell blood and sick and sweat, as well as an undertone of decay. There are voices, so many voices, and footsteps, about eight codes being called on different floors and the flurry of activity in response to each. He's struck by the lack of injuries, of people in the waiting room, they're all deeper inside. They're packed even in hallways. So many struggling for air. So many. Coronavirus has taken over everything. The smell of bleach burns his nostrils. It's pervasive, overpowering on top of everything else. 

The panic is rising and, with it, Matt struggles to regain control of his breath. The wheelchair stops. Somewhere Claire is talking loudly, she says his name, she says Coronavirus, she rattles off some numbers that seem to galvanize a response. Before Matt feels he's able to digest his surroundings in any way, there are hands grasping him. They help him rise and transfer him to a stretcher, propping him up in a half sitting position. There's a loud metal clicking sound as the sides are locked into place. Matt's breathing quickens, why is he reacting this way? Why is he afraid? 

Hands find his arm, but he's sinking back into darkness. Can’t read heartbeats, can’t focus enough to tell who is touching him. The hands release him, then reappear. Hands that slip into his and squeeze until Matt recognizes the beating of Claire's heart, faster now, beating worry worry worry. 

“Matt this is as far as I can go right now.”

“Claire.” He gasps. 

“They're going to get you on oxygen, start an IV and hopefully get you into a room soon. I explained you've had lung and chest injuries in the past, and that you're NPL. I'm going to call Foggy right away, Karen and Jess. Is there anyone else…”

“Maggie.”

“OK, I'll get her number from Foggy. They won't be able to visit you here.”

The stretcher starts to move, the jolt of it ratcheting up Matt's panic again. Claire walks with the stretcher, gripping him as tightly as he's gripping her. 

“But I've been working part time since this started so I'll be back in the hospital tomorrow afternoon and I'll be able to come see you, OK?”

Matt nods. Her hands are starting to slip away. 

“OK, I'll see you soon Matt. Try to rest and…” She slips out of his grasp, still talking, getting quieter as they move away. Her voice taking on more wet behind her paper mask. 

Something hard and plastic is set over Matt's face as the stretcher continues down the hall, cold, clean oxygen buffeting him from within. The vibrations through the floor are so loud. He feels like he’s flying apart.

#

The phone call is harder to make than she expected. She's made these kinds of calls before, informing strangers of their loved ones illness, injury, sometimes their death. She's even had to call Foggy a few times, way back when. But that was so long ago now she's not even sure she still has his number. But then again, she still had Matt's didn't she? 

She finally sits down to do it. Luke's in the living room, where he's been sleeping the last three weeks since Claire went back to work at the hospital four nights a week. She sits down on the bed and finds the contact, dials the number. 

“Holy shit, Claire?” Foggy answers. 

“Yep it's me.”

“Wow, great to hear your voice. It's been a hot second. How are you? Everything ok?”

“Ya,” she almost says. Shakes her head like that will communicate what she needs to say instead. Matt might have heard it through the line, but it's lost on Foggy. 

“No.” She finally manages, “I'm sorry to have to tell you this Foggy, but I just left Matt at Metro general.” 

A beat of silence. “I don't… The hospital? I just saw Matt yesterday.”

“You saw him? Did you…”

“From the stairs. We were six feet away from each other, promise.”

“You brought him the fever meds I'm guessing?”

“Ya. What… what happened?”

“He called me late last night. Early morning I guess. I knew it was serious if he was calling so I went right away. He wasn’t doing well. Did you know he had contracted Coronavirus?” 

“Ya. He told me. But Claire, that was literally just yesterday…”

“It can progress very quickly. He might have felt OK and then overnight... though if I'm honest, it's more likely he was downplaying some of his symptoms.”

“Fuck.” Foggy makes a wet noise into the receiver. “I fucking knew it. That’s Matt in a nutshell, right? How was he when you left?”

“He’s...really sick Foggy. He had a very high temperature, they'll try to lower it to prevent seizures or organ damage. His sats were low so supplementary oxygen of some type. Depending on how the illness progresses he might be intubated. If…”

“If?”

“If the equipment is available.”

“Fuck.” Foggy says again. “Claire. Am I gonna lose him?”

Claire looks up at the ceiling, takes a breath. "I'll know more when I see him tomorrow."

“The hospitals are closed to visitors aren't they?”

“I have a shift.”

“What time?”

“2PM.”

“That's... that's good, right? That you can get in to see him?”

“Ya. I'll call you after?”

“Please, ya. I would meet you there but…”

“Better to stay home.”

“Fuck, how did this happen Claire? He's one of the strongest…”

“The virus doesn't care about that.” Claire shakes her head. 

“But he doesn’t have pre-existing conditions, I thought this kinda thing only happened to people with other illnesses?”

“Matt's had injuries before that could be complicating things. Crush injuries, blunt force trauma — they leave a mark internally. Scar tissue can form inside the lungs and... this thing. It's a lung eater.”

“I hate it.” 

“Ya. Me too.”

“Thanks for letting me know Claire.”

“Foggy one more thing — Matt wanted me to call someone named Maggie?”

“OK. I'll handle that.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Thank you. I'm glad you were with him, Claire.”

“Me too. I'll talk to you soon.”

Claire slips in for her 2PM shift at 1:30 and spends a few minutes looking for Matt in the computer system. He's in a three bed room on what was an ICU but is now a designated isolation ward for COVID-19 patients. She stops outside at a handwashing station and avoids eye contact with the other nurses coming and going. Good thing everyone with a valid nursing license has been called into work the last few weeks, or she might face questions as she dons the PPE and slips onto the ward. 

Matt's room is third on the right, just past the nursing station so Claire has to walk like she's on a mission to avoid detection. 

Matt's the middle bed, the curtains are parted lazily at the end. She can see the rise of his feet beneath the sheet but nothing else from the door. She takes a deep breath, steadies herself and walks into the room with the confidence of someone on the job. 

It still manages to stop her in her tracks when she rounds the curtain to find Matt intubated and unconscious. 

His eyes are closed and they stand out as purple bruises against the pallor of his skin. The stubble of several days without shaving stands out on his chin and jaw. There are wires and cables and tubes. The kind of adornments Claire has seen a thousand times. On a thousand patients. But it's different when it's someone you care about in the bed. She goes directly for his hand. Takes one of his in both of hers and holds it. She gives it a squeeze and leans down close to his face, loosing one hand to swipe the dampened sweep of his hair from his forehead. 

"Matt it's Claire." She says, "I just want you to know I'm here. OK?" 

She keeps her grip on his slack hand as she maneuvers to the end of the bed, has to let go for a moment to reach his chart, then grasps his hand again with renewed vigour. She flips idly through the chart one handed. Chews the inside of her cheek distractedly while she skims. Flips to the CT scan, flips back to the notes. Satisfied she's gleaned all she can, Claire sets the chart on the bed and clasps both hands around Matt's like she's about to pray. Leaning forward, she gets a good look at his face. He's definitely looked worse, under the tape and the tubes. She's seen him with more bruises. More stitches. More blood. He's looked worse. But the chart tells another story. Claire squeezes his hand.

“Matt I know you're fighting right now and...I want you to know that I'm proud of you.” She smooths back that whisper of hair again. Unruly as ever. “You keep fighting and I'll be here, checking up on you.” 


	4. Claire: The hard talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your big giant trigger warning friends. This was a difficult chapter to write, but I think, an important one. This is the chapter where Claire and Foggy talk Matt's Advance Directive. A big part of this chapter is about dying, and what that can look like. I've put some effort into research and into what I think the characters would want in this instance, but these decisions are very personal ones and do not reflect a moral or preferred option. Please consider having this difficult conversation with your loved ones so that they expressly know what you want, and you them. This is not just a thing to do in a pandemic, it's an all the time thing, but it is extra important right now. 
> 
> Here are some resources I used to help guide the questions in this chapter:  
> US:  
> https://www.aafp.org/afp/1999/0201/p617.html  
> https://www.nia.nih.gov/health/advance-care-planning-healthcare-directives  
> Canada:  
> https://www.healthlinkbc.ca/health-topics/aa114595

Claire calls Foggy on her break a few hours later and he sheepishly admits to being outside the emergency room. She spares a heavenward glance as she walks to the front, out into the sunshine of a particularly beautiful spring day. Foggy's standing awkwardly about nine feet down the sidewalk and Claire waves for him to follow her. She leads him a block away to a small "healing garden" where they sit opposite each other on park benches separated by a wide walkway.

Foggy looks rattled. He's wearing a homemade looking fabric mask and a windbreaker with its collar turned up at the breeze. His normally slicked hair is wild and hanging in waves, reminiscent of its longer days. He's got new worry lines on his face, deepened with the twist of his frown. 

“OK spill.” He says into the phone.

Claire spreads her hands and shakes her head.

“How is he?”

She sighs, “Good news, or bad news?”

Foggy motions for her to continue, “Gimme the good.” 

“His fever is responding to medications.” 

“That's good.” Foggy looks hopefully at her. “Tell me there’s more good?”

She grimaces, "His breathing got worse last night after I left. His sats bottomed out and they had to sedate and intubate him."

"He’s not breathing on his own?"

"COVID-19 starts as an upper respiratory tract infection.” Caire starts, “If it gets into the lower respiratory tract it can damage the alveoli in the lungs. That attracts inflammatory cells and fluid starts to build up, which makes it harder to breath. It’s called Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome — ARDS. It’s a common complication in severe cases of COVID-19. If the damage is bad enough, they intubate. A ventilator provides more oxygen than a nasal cannula or a face mask, and it’s less risky for the healthcare workers than non-invasive intubation right now. It’ll give his lungs a chance to heal from the damage that’s been done. Matt’s lucky they even had a ventilator available…” She tapers off.

"Or we might not be having this conversation."

She nods. It's a pretty far gap between them and Claire desperately wants to reach across it. Foggy looks very small and very lonely. 

“So what's the prognosis? How long will he be intubated?”

“Until they think his lungs have recovered enough that he can breathe on his own. They’ll be monitoring his sats, watching his kidney and heart function. This part is going to involve a lot of waiting. Monitoring. It could be a few weeks.” 

"Weeks?” Foggy runs his hand through his hair, pulling on the ends. “I don’t know if I can take weeks. Does he have to be sedated? Matt hates sedatives, pain meds — they fuck with his senses. He won't be able to... see."

“Ya, he has to be sedated. I know it’s hard to imagine, but your lungs are very delicate and intubation can damage them even further if we’re not careful. Sedatives and paralytics keep the patient from moving around and causing more damage. The ventilator also takes very small breaths, ones that would be uncomfortable if the patient was awake. We can’t worry about his senses right now, Foggy. We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

"If we come to it, you mean."

“Ya.” Claire nods softly. “There’s something… I have to.” She scrunches up her face, makes a sound of frustration. 

“Out with it, Claire.” 

“We need to do something, and it’s gonna suck.” 

"OK, I’m bracing.” 

"Matt... doesn't have an advance directive."

Claire watches the colour drain out of Foggy's face from across the path. 

"Are we... are we talking end of life?"

"We're talking about Matt's wishes. What he would want. We need to talk about it now so that we know what to do if things get worse. I don’t want to have to ask you these questions in a life or death situation, OK? We need to do it now, when we still have time to think."

Foggy gets to his feet, breathing hard down the line. He lowers the phone and rips the mask off his face with the other hand, like it's smothering him. Does two laps around his bench. 

"It's OK, Foggy. I'm going to walk you through it." Claire says loudly enough he can hear without the phone. 

He takes a step toward her, two steps back and sits down heavy. "Why am I doing this?” He asks into the phone. “How does it..."

"Before they put him under they asked and he...named you as his medical proxy."

"Jesus Matt. He didn't even...Fuck. Fuck!"

"I know how big a deal this is, I do. You and me will both have a talk with him when he's better, but today, now, we need to have this discussion."

"I can't Claire." He's shaking his head, still breathing hard. 

"You can. OK? I just have a few questions." 

Foggy nods. 

"Number one. Do you think Matt would want to be resuscitated with CPR if his heart stopped?”

Foggy breathes down the line for a long time. "Ya." He says, "Ya. I think so?"

"Do you think Matt would want to be on a ventilator if he couldn’t breath on his own?"

Foggy blanks, hesitates. "That's what he's on right now."

"He is. So let’s think about what kind of situations he would or wouldn’t want to be on a ventilator. Right now, it’s letting him rest so his lungs can recover from the damage the virus has done. But if he were resuscitated after a cardiac arrest, for example, and he wasn’t breathing on his own, would he still want to be intubated?”

"I don't know Claire. I think... I think... If we were certain he wouldn't recover, you know? But if he was hit by a truck and on a ventilator or… like right now, you know? When he needs the help to breathe..."

"OK." Claire hedges. "I think I understand. In some cases, if the doctor decides it's unlikely he'll regain consciousness, life support should be discontinued."

"That sounds... that sounds right."

"You’re doing great. Foggy. Really. This is hard stuff. If Matt were in a great deal of pain and was incapable of making clear decisions on his own, do you think he'd want the pain relieved by high doses of drugs?"

"No... I don't think so. But... Claire I would want him to take them. I mean. If he were in so much pain he couldn't think straight? I would want him to have the drugs."

"That's fair. Sometimes, when someone is dying, they're in pain and confused and the drugs help them pass more comfortably. "

"But they would mess with Matt's senses. He wouldn't be able to see anything. I don't know... if he was really dying he might...want to see."

"This kind of pain might make it hard for him to use his senses, I know he has to concentrate to make sense of all the stimuli."

"I think...no. To the drugs. For now. I'll... ask him about it. When he's better."

"OK. Do you think Matt would want to receive nutritional support while unconscious?"

"Is he having that now?"

"Not yet. Sometimes they'll wait to see if the patient's condition improves for a few days before deciding if they require feeding. COVID-19 patients sometimes need up to two weeks before their lungs are healed enough to come off the ventilator, which is a lot longer than typical for ARDS patients. There can be a lot of complications from being on a ventilator that long, and it’s too long to go without nutrition. The recommended feeding method for ARDS is enteral feeding. That means they run a tube either through the mouth or directly to the stomach or small intestine.” 

"What happens if he doesn't receive nutrition?"

"He‘d lose body mass, muscle mass. It might take a few weeks, but he'd go into organ failure and..."

"Got it." Foggy scrubs his hands through his hair. "I think. Yes? In this instance. You know, if it’s going to take that long...he needs to be strong enough to fight this thing.” 

“Just one more important one for now. I'll type everything up and leave a few blank questions for you to come back to. I'll email it, you sign it and send it back."

"OK." 

"OK.” Claire takes a deep breath. “You’ve said yes to nutrition, barring organ failure, we might expect him to be on the ventilator for 11 days to two weeks. You’ve said the doctors should consider discontinuing life support if they don’t think he’s going to recover. I know it feels clinical and vague and not connected to where we are right now or what we’re dealing with, so I want to be explicit. Matt’s lungs have been damaged, his previous injuries may have played a part in that, but the virus is going to make it progressively worse. It feels like drowning. Struggling to breath is exhausting. The harder he struggled, the weaker he became, and, because he’s Matt, he probably waited way too long to seek treatment. The ventilator will give him rest so he can get stronger and the damage can heal. He’s been heavily sedated and given paralytics to ensure he remains unconscious, doesn’t fight the ventilator and damage his lungs further. He’ll be given some fluid intravenously, as well as antibiotics in case the ventilator causes an infection and other things like corticosteroids which they’ve been testing on COVID-19 cases to varying degrees of success. Since we’ve OK’d it, they’ll start the nutrition which will be through additional tubes. On the ventilator there’s a risk of dependency over time, and the ventilator itself can damage the lungs, so it will be giving him very small breaths. The longer he’s on it the higher the risk of infection, permanent lung damage, kidney and heart failure. Outcomes for ventilated COVID-19 patients vary like crazy from country to country. Some stats are pretty grim, some are more positive. It’s still very early in the US so it’s hard to say what we’re up against.” She gives Foggy a glance, he’s looking very still, very intently at her. “How we doing?” 

“Just rip off the bandaid.” 

“OK. Is there a point where Matt would want to discontinue life support.” 

"Can we take him off… before he becomes dependent on it?"

"We can try. Depending on how his lungs are healing he might struggle to get better without the support. There are less invasive supplementary oxygen methods that he could be moved towards, but they don’t deliver the same amount of support as the ventilator, and they may not be safe for his healthcare team because they’re not a closed system." 

"I think we should take him off as soon as the doctor thinks it's possible."

"If his kidneys were to fail, do you think he would want to be on dialysis?” 

“No?” 

“If his heart were to stop, do you think Matt would want to be resuscitated — under these circumstances?” 

"Claire I can't." 

"It's OK.” Claire bites her lip. “I really want to hug you right now and I need you to know that."

Foggy’s exhale vibrates down the line, he shakes his head. The phone floating away from his face, then back to his ear. "Claire..." 

"It's very unlikely Foggy, he's doing well so far. They’ll do more testing this afternoon and I will let you know if there’s any improvement, OK?” 

"OK." 

"If he went into cardiac arrest — should they do CPR?” 

"No." Foggy moans. 

Claire sighs, "You did really good Foggy."

"Thanks. I hated it." 

"Me too."

Claire rolls her neck. Nods across the path to Foggy who looks about ready to collapse. "Put your mask back on."

Foggy looks up, "What?" 

Claire hangs up the phone, stuffs it in a pocket and strides over to Foggy who hastily replaces his face mask as she approaches. She wraps her arms around him and squeezes. It's been ages since she hugged anyone that wasn't Luke, and Foggy is nothing like Luke. He's shorter, softer. Claire can get her arms around him easier. She is hugging him for a moment, and then he's hugging her back. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, a wet sob muffled by layers of fabric. 

"You'll get through this." Claire says firmly. "You will."

She’s not sure if he believes her. Not sure if it’s meant more for him or for her. He sucks in a loud sob and swallows hard. 

Coronavirus is cruel. It's cruel in a way that a car accident or a long drawn out disease or an overdose is not. In a way that a mugging or a fire fight or a violent criminal can't be. There's no rushing to the bedside of a dying loved one. There's no final goodbye. There's not even a funeral. It even robs them of this, this moment. Two people who care about someone holding onto each other as tightly as they can. 

Claire wants to hold onto foggy for as long as possible. But her break is over, she'll need to return to work.

Need to go back and wash her hands, her face, and change clothes. Put on the mask, the gown, the face shield, the gloves. There's already talk of reusing these one-time use PPE. She's already thinking about how she'll conserve them. How this might be her only break from them in a 12 hour shift. She'll need to finish out the day and then go back to her apartment and do it all again. Wash every part of her, scrubbing till she's red, till her skin is raw because you don't know, you can never know. She'll be sequestering herself in the bedroom tonight, while Luke makes dinner and watches tv because the loneliness is better than the uncertainty. Better than the image burnt into her mind of Matt in that bed. Matt who is the strongest person she knows. Not like Luke is strong. Luke, who lifts cars over his head and deflects bullets with his skin. But Matt. Whose skin can bruise and break, whose bones can fracture. But who always gets back up.

She has to be safe now. She has to let Foggy go.

And she can't. 


	5. Foggy: Gratitude, Part 1

Foggy is quickly approaching a state of perpetual numbness. 

He’s aware, dimly, as though through a settling fog, that there are a lot of things he should be feeling right now.

Foggy should be grateful. And he is. In a categorical, analytical way. The kind of way you feel grateful when your entire house has been wiped out by a tsunami, but the rare baseball cards your uncle gave you when you were six survived. That's the kind of grateful he can still feel. In this way, he's grateful that Karen has decided to stay, for the duration of this thing, with him and Marci. He's grateful that he has these two other people in his life that he can still hold. He's grateful to live in a comfortable apartment. To still be able to afford the said apartment. To have food. To have toilet paper. 

That's a ridiculous thought. 

But it’s true.

And the gratitude he’s still able to feel turns in his stomach, souring when he remembers the paperwork that Claire promised to send. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen laying in a hospital bed — the exact place Foggy had wanted to see him on several occasions, instead of, for example, his living room floor. 

Foggy would rather feel nothing, would rather feel anything but gratitude. Because you can’t be grateful one moment and be signing your best friends DNR the next. You can’t feel lucky, and then be delivering that news to your friend's estranged mother. 

Maggie takes it in stride. She's calm and collected on the phone. She asks questions and Foggy does his best to provide answers. Claire did a good job of preparing him. He tells Maggie about the advance directive and Maggie seems to approve of his decisions. That's good. It should help, and maybe it does. A little. 

She says something like ‘we'll be praying for him’ and hangs up abruptly. Matt would be able to tell something about her heart rate or her respiration through the phone line. Foggy can't. Foggy's left with nothing but an empty pit in his stomach. 

At least that's what Matt would want, right? To be prayed for? Foggy's tired of wondering what Matt would want. 

When he tells Marci about the advance directive she coos and calls him Foggy-bear, and it's grating instead of comforting. Feeling that way makes him angry at himself, at Matt. Then he’s ashamed, because how could he be mad at Matt? 

When he tells Karen, she becomes very quiet and very still. She reaches across the kitchen for him and takes his hand around Marci’s hug. She squeezes it. And he feels, all at once, a soothing warmth. Some semblance of gratitude, like its distorted reflection in a funhouse mirror. What’s he grateful for? For someone in this goddamn world to be as wrecked over this as he is. And how fucked up is that? To be grateful for your friend’s immense pain just because it’s no longer yours to bear alone. 

So instead of feeling grateful, or anything else, Foggy packs it all in and feels nothing at all. 

Nothing, when Claire calls to tell him that Matt's oxygen sats have improved.

Nothing, when Foggy's parents call for their daily check-in and his mother breaks down in tears over the phone. 

Nothing, when the mayor gives his address on Sunday and lists 320 patients in critical care across the city. 30 more than yesterday. There are no names in these addresses, he says only that the youngest of these is 36 years old. He’s talking about Matt. 

Nothing when Claire calls the next afternoon to tell him Matt’s continuing to show signs of improvement. It's been 3 days now. How many days before that DNR comes into effect? Foggy can feel it looming like the killer in a slasher film, right behind you in the shadows so that when you spin around you see nothing but the audience knows it's there. Waiting. He dreams at night about not being able to breathe. About fluid building slowly in his lungs until he drowns. He wakes up gasping for air. 

He can’t sleep, so Foggy takes to going out at night.

He wears a reusable mask and he keeps his hands in his pockets and — if there were anyone on the sidewalks — he might take care to stay six feet away. But there's no one. New York is a ghost town. It's quiet, kinda peaceful. Foggy doesn't care to spend this time thinking, he just walks. He goes where his feet take him. Sometimes he wanders to the docks. Sometimes to central park. He walks for hours. Till his legs are wobbly and his head is numb. You’d think that with no one else out here, with crime rates continuing to drop, it would all come with a modicum of confidence. But you can tell by the emptiness — just because people aren’t worried about getting mugged doesn’t mean they feel safe. The dangers are more mercurial now. They don’t stand out on the sidewalk, all red and spikey, like the illustration released by the WHO. They’re invisible. 

As the night's pass and the days blur together, subtle things change. Sometimes, Foggy is serenaded on his walk back to the apartment by singing and music blaring from balconies. Increasingly, he notices police patrolling the neighbourhoods. Walk quickly, take short cuts. Don't get a fine. Foggy can’t tune some of the other things he's noticing. The homelessness is growing. The people with nowhere to go. The people who Matt saw. Who Matt helped. Matt always had some ill-advised plan to make a difference, and Foggy always told him — do it with the law. So Foggy walks home one night after a rather close call with a police officer who tells him in no uncertain terms — stay at home — and he pulls out his laptop. He opens a blank word document and he starts to type: Legal Guidance for Tenants During COVID-19 Pandemic.

I know things are scary out there, he types, I hope this information can help you. 

Number one, landlords can’t legally withhold essential services like hot water or electricity over failure to pay rent. 

The Nelson, Murdock and Page newsletter makes its debut a couple of days later. With Karen and Marci’s help, it does quite well. Foggy writes up a media statement in the hopes it will get picked up. If they can get this information into the hands of the people that need it, that’s something, right? Someone from The Bulletin calls for a statement, asking for one of the partners. When Foggy introduces himself, the reporter asks: “Is it true that your partner, Mr. Murdock is currently being treated in the ICU for complications related to COVID-19? What’s his condition?” 

“I’m not at liberty to divulge personal health information…” Foggy starts, taken by surprise. 

“Was his illness the impetus for this newsletter?” 

“Matt...Mr. Murdock and I are always looking for ways to bring value to our community.” Foggy parrots a line from the media release and hangs up the phone. 

There’s a burning ember of something like anger under the blanket of Foggy’s numbness. He stokes it. Feeds it. That night, Foggy doesn’t go walking. Instead, come morning he sets a stack of papers down on the kitchen counter in front of Karen while she nurses a black coffee. 

“Morning?” She picks the first page up experimentally, tilts her head. “Did you write all of this since yesterday?” 

Foggy shrugs. “The information out there is unreliable, and the situation is changing fast. I want to get these published by tonight, can you proof?” 

“Ya.” Karen raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want to pry, but…” 

“I’m fine,” Foggy says, but it’s not lost on him that he’s now using Matt’s favourite phrase. “Just...coping.” 

Karen nods. He's not the only one developing coping mechanisms of late, it's Maggie, after all, who organizes the vigil. Karen, who writes the article. And it’s Jessica who takes Matt the tape. 


	6. Jessica: The Tape

Jessica is like a wrecking ball. She always is. Can't help it. She finds good things, and she wrecks them. She finds good people, and she wrecks them too. She's learning to harness that power, to use it to wreck the bad things just as surely as the good. But this Coronavirus shit, it's something she can't rage against. Can't toss it off a building. Can't bludgeon with her fists. And that's a problem. Because the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is a friend, might be one of her last ones, and there's nothing she wouldn't wreck for her friends. 

So she puts on the fabric mask she bought in a tiny pharmacy for $40 (this piece of shit is worth $10, what's it made of? A bed sheet?) And she marches in the front doors of Metro General.

"Ma'am are you injured?" The nurse at the desk asks around her surgical mask.

"I'm here to see someone."

"I'm sorry, but we're not accepting visitors at this time."

Jessica can see there are security types massing in her peripherals. Now that she's inside it's clear the ER is all but empty, a few terrified looking people sitting at opposite ends of the waiting room are all that remain of what would normally be one of the busiest places in New York. Now, all that action is somewhere else in the hospital.

"Look. I know that. I'm not stupid." Jessica shifts uncomfortably. "But I need to see someone. A patient."

"I know who you are." The nurse says. 

Jessica scoffs. "How come the mask works for everybody else." 

"You can't just walk in here when it's against the rules."

One of those security guards puts a hand on her upper arm and Jessica tenses. 

"Hey!" Claire comes out of a room in the right with her hands up like she's used to dealing with wild fucking animals and Jessica raises a very pointed eyebrow. 

"I haven't done anything."

"Not yet." Claire hisses and Jessica can tell from the crinkle of her eyes behind the mask that she's smiling. Claire nods Jessica to the side and Jess gives the nurse at the desk and the handsy security guard an equally pointed nod. 

When they have a modicum of privacy Claire crosses her arms and sighs. "You're here for Matt."

"Leave it to Matt fucking Murdock to go martyr himself for this stupid city a second time."

"It's not like that." Claire shakes her head and Jessica shrugs. Maybe it just feels that way to her. "So what is it, what do you gotta tell Matt so badly it can't wait."

"That depends. How is he?"

"Not good. Obviously."

"Look I know you're not supposed to release patient information blah blah blah but Karen told me some stuff and I just want to confirm it."

Claire thinks for a moment. Sighs again. "He's been intubated."

"Shit."

"He's going to be unconscious for a while, probably. So I mean it when I say no visitors Jessica. You shouldn't even be here."

Jess throws up her hands. "I know. OK? I know. I just."

"I know." Claire gestures in frustration. "This is what he does to people."

"Ya." Jessica scoffs, voice softening. "Look I...found something for him. To...keep him entertained."

"Like I said, doesn't need much entertainment right now."

"They say that people under sedation are sometimes aware of their surroundings. Even if they're not with it. They hear things. You're supposed to talk to them. Right?"

"Ya." 

"Well Matt has pretty good hearing,” she pulls a disk out of her messenger bag and holds it out. “So just take this and play it for him."

Claire hesitates. "What is this, a CD?"

"Ya, I fucking lysolled the hell out of it too, so just. Take it." 

Claire takes the disk and examines it, in Jessica's handwriting in messy sharpie it says ‘Murdock’. "What is it?"

"Just something to remind him what he needs to do. OK?"

Claire nods, curious. She quirks an eyebrow. "You came here just to..."

"Ya. I did."

"Ok, Jess.” Claire shrugs, “I'll make sure he gets it."

Jessica nods, works her jaw as she shifts awkwardly on the spot. "Nelson been able to..."

"No visitors. Not even Foggy."

"That sucks." 

Claire nods. "Ya. It does."

"You're OK?" Jessica ventures, clearly now wishing she were anywhere else. 

"I'm managing." Claire breathes. "It's a lot. Matt and I have barely spoken since all that shit sent down at Midland circle, and before that, not for at least a year. And now I'm...all he's got in here."

"Ya." Jessica agrees, examining the floor. "That's a lot." 

Claire gestures with the disk in her hand. "Thank you. I'll... I don't know? You want me to call you when I play this for him?"

"No." Jessica shakes her head, grimacing. She takes a step away. "When he wakes up."

Claire nods. "When he wakes up." 

And Jessica spills back out into the mild spring morning. The sunshine is the most depressing thing she’s ever seen.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is sitting around 20,000 words now, and as the pandemic continues I'm sure I'll add and change things. Please keep in mind I am not a medical professional, nor can my words express the experience of the people in New York, Italy, or any of the places currently being hit hard by Covid-19. I hesitated for a long time about whether or not I should post it, but as I say, 20,000 words in I feel like I have learned a lot, which instead of scaring me, has made me feel more empowered in the face of this crisis. Which I hope this fic can do for you, too. 
> 
> This fic is 80% working through my own emotions, 10% a PSA (please stay home, please be cautious, please be compassionate with our brave frontline workers and please write a living will for yourself, and make sure all your loved ones have also done so) and 10% shameless Matt whump. 
> 
> Some resources if you're looking for more up to date information on the coronavirus:  
> https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/cases-updates/index.html  
> https://www.canada.ca/en/public-health/services/diseases/coronavirus-disease-covid-19.html


End file.
